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Wake! The silver dusk returning 

Up the beach of darkness brims, 

And the ship of sunrise burning 

Strands upon the eastern rims. 

Up, lad, up! 'Tis late for lying; 

Hear the drums of morning play ; 
Hark, the empty highways crying 

"Who'll beyond the hills away?" 

from "Reveille" 

by Alfred Edward Housman 


Established 1901 

Delaware Valley College of Science and Agriculture 
Doylestown, Pa. 18901 

Spring-Summer 1973 


Ray D. Blew '74 
Ana Simon '75 

Typing Staff 

David Leininger 
Howard Mandel 
Ray D. Blew 

Art Staff 

Ana Simon 
Howard Mandel 

Layout & Design 

Howard Mandel 

Nick Pagerly 


Ana Simon '75 
Mike Weller '75 
Tom Yohe '75 
Robert J. Palazzi '74 
Ray D. Blew '74 
P. Bowles 

Howard Mandel '74 
Drew Kotalic 
Edward Biddle 

Faculty Advisors 

Faculty Contributions 
Edward O'Brien, Jr. 

Quotes from 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 
Alfred Edward Housman 

Additional Art Work 
Campus Press Service 

Dr. George Keys Edward O'Brien, Jr. 

The Gleaner is published during the scholastic year by the 
students of Delaware Valley College of Doylestown, Pennsylvania. 
The Gleaner is a student publication, and the opinions expressed 
within are not necessarily those of the Gleaner staff or adminis- 
tration. Neither the college nor staff will assume responsibility for 
plagiarism unknowingly occurring within. 

A ruled life is led so sure — and sheltered pure. 
On level ground you '11 not fall far. 

But then, again, ne'er will you rise. 

Ana Simon 



"Reputation is the only incentive I recognize." 
— Paul Morphy 

Ambivalence is defined as "the simultaneous attraction toward 
and repulsion from an object, person, or action." To any sensitive 
person who knows the dubious blessing of a fondness toward the 
sport of chess, ambivalence is doubtless the most accurate 
description of his attitude toward the royal game. The devoted 
chess-player loves and despises chess for what it is (a fascinating 
mental exercise and an exhausting time-killer); he loves it for what 
it can do (it makes possible the creation of sensuous and abstract 
beauty) and he despises it for what it can do to himself and others 
— chess feeds vanity and the lust for domination over others. 

A closer look at the ambivalence of this ancient game — some 
would call it an art or a science — might be profitable for those 
who would know why people "play at chesse", as a medieval 
writer might put it. 

First, the attractive side. The simple fact is that chess is fun. 
And whatever is fun is wonderful; that is, full of wonders. Chess is 
played because it is a keen, interesting, joyous escape into a 
diversion. The fun is involved in the sharp matching of wits, of 
mind against mind, which makes the contest, the game. Probably 
the simplest and finest pleasure of chess consists in two good 
friends enjoying a game together in a quiet, cozy room of a 
comfortable house, with agreeable things accompanying the game, 
such as wine, cheese and crackers, cigarettes, and soothing music. 
A fire crackling in the fireplace and a dog padding about, rain 
outside. I would say these moments are the very best the game has 
to offer — chess in its most humanistic realization, happily devoid 
of the fierce competition that coarsens tournament play. A 
friendly game is one where the ugly spirit of competitive stress and 
strain is dissipated by affection and where consequently a mood of 
relaxation obtains. The most attractive side of chess is what may 
be called its "moral" character, its ability to increase the 
enjoyment of friendship. 

Another attractive element of chess is its aesthetic character. 
The beauty of the game is both sensuous and intellectual. The 
sensuous beauty is provided by the pieces themselves (when well 
carved) as they move over the checkered board — by the nimble 
leaping of the knights (milk-white unicorns or black steeds 
prancing), by the long side-ways sliding elusiveness of the bishops 
(subtle churchmen), the straight-forward masculine sweep of the 
rooks (solid castles of power), the feminine authority of the 
queens, the quiet strength of the kings, the pedantic plodding of 
the pawns. All the color and motley and pageantry of the high 
middle ages is stylized in the 32-piece hierarchy waiting comfort- 
ably at the start of a game. One imagines Camelot, boar-hunts, 
tapestries, Merlin, flagons of ale, banners, French inscriptions — 
Honi soit qui mal y pense — silver trumpets and golden lutes, 
cathedrals, misty forests, Richard Coer-de-Lion, the castle of 
Carnaervon. . .all the enchanting cornucopia of Christian civiliza- 
tion. Chess is fun. 

The intellectual beauty of the game is something else again, 
being chiefly a matter of, I suppose, logic, invention, surprise, and 
subtlety. The formal, abstract beauty that is created by the neat 
technique or by the sacrificial combinations of great players is 
wine to the intellect. For example, when in 1858 in New Orleans, 
the young master Morphy (playing blindfolded!) sacrificed first his 
rook, then his queen to launch a complex and decisive two- 
bishops-and-pawn attack, he moved his pieces with an elegant, 
stunning finesse that brought into being a masterpiece of logic and 
imagination. In another splendid example of creative chess, against 
Thompson in 1857 in New York, Morphy gave up a rook in order 
to initiate a sparkling sequence of thirteen queen-and-knight 
maneuvers that won his opponent's queen. The sheer natural 
genius of the great Cuban master, Jose R. Capablanca, as he cut 
through the appallingly complicated abysses of hypermodern chess 
to achieve a simple lucid victory, is proverbial. The Russian master 
Alekhine (apparently pronounced a\-yekk-in) once, in a simultane- 
ous blindfold display, announced a checkmate in ten moves. 
Botvinnik once adroitly calculated twenty-two moves ahead for a 
checkmate. The result of such play is art and the delight that the 
comtemplation of art will give. The great masters of the game, in 
their ability to conceive combinations of astonishing intricacy, to 
weave mating nets of fastidious complexity, are comparable to the 
Mozarts and the Shelleys. 

Despite this rather lofty claim for chess, there is something 
about the game, or about man's attitude toward it, which is 
disquieting. Across this faery realm of potent medieval magic, this 
esoteric kingdom of logical beauty, there floats a disturbing 
dissonance. . .the note of pride, vanity, or whatever. Also 
triviality. Let us admit it at once — chess is a snobbish triviality. 
Chess, or success at it, can easily make one a snob or a prig. 

It seems very difficult to approach a game, whether lost or won, 
in the right spirit, which would be a detachment suitable to what 
is, or should be, only a game, a sport. I mean any particular game 
one is playing. The important thing is to win at all costs. One must 
not look bad; the logic of the thing, the game, is really secondary. 
What is primary is to look good; artistry yields to ego. And then 
one can use chess as a tool to achieve a certain kind of intellectual 
domination over another person, which is really rather shameful or 
even horrible when you think of it. The diabolical strain in chess 
lies in its power to make easier anyone's already easy tendency to 
worship that old unholy trinity — me, myself and I — by knocking 
down someone else. Dr. Lasker, world champion from 1894 to 
1921, knew what chess really is to serious players. It is a fight. 
And when you fight you want to win; and when you win, 
someone must lose. And you are so glad! Winning. The very 
concept of winning is surely one of the queerest idols ever put up 
for sale in Vanity Fair. 

And if all this is true of amateur, casual chess, it is certainly 
much more true of professional chess, of match and tournament 
play. Here, the ego swells to some rather startling proportions. 
Fischer has spoken warmly of that moment of victory when he 
can feel the ego of his opponent being crushed (by his own). One 
instance was during the crucial sixth match game against the 
Armenian master Petrosian, in Buenos Aires. Alekhine is reported 
to have smashed furniture in his hotel room after losing to the 
beautiful play of Yates. The concern was with his own loss, not 
with the fine performance of Yates. A German master whose name 
I can't recall stood on a chair after a game and shouted "Why must 
I lose to this idiot?" 

Professional chess has always appeared to me as a world of 
competitive lust where the only thing that matters is to be the 
most powerful player on earth, or the strongest player in Russia, 
or in New York State, etc., etc. Alekhine is supposed to have said, 
upon entering another country — "I am Alekhine, chess champion 

of the world." The biographies of famous chess-players make 
lamentable reading. Chess appears to be "everything" to them. 
Their idol is their own intellectual power. Domination and 
oppression are the words that describe the ambience of chess at 
the summit. And surprisingly, chess at these high levels of 
competence is also such a physical matter. It is no longer a game. 
Petrosian said, "Chess may start out by being an art or science, but 
it ends up a physical endurance test." Imagine the exhausting 
wizardry of playing, as Koltanowski did, 56 simultaneous blindfold 
games, winning fifty ! 

One of the fundamental flaws of chess is that it is much too 
difficult for a game, and therein lies its trap. It simply demands 
too much of a man's time. You hear tales of players devoting 
fantastic amounts of time to studying opening- and end-game 
theory. There are countless opening gambits, each with bewilder- 
ing variations and sub -variations. In Modern Chess Openings, a 
volume of appalling size, sixty-five pages of small print are given 
over to tracing the labyrinthine mazes of the Sicilian Defense 
alone; over seventy for the Ruy Lopez. And this trivial Leviathan 
has devoured substantial portions of men's lives. Dr. Johnson said 
somewhere that nothing is too small for a man's attention, because 
men are small creatures. I wonder what he would say of Modern 
Chess Openings? Perhaps. . ."Depend upon it, sir, this book is 
unworthy of a man's attention; it is an undertaking of utter 
futility." And then, of course, even to glance at the book called 
Basic Chess Endings is enough to discourage an Einstein. It seems 
to contain at least ninety thousand pages of Arabic script, written 
for the solemn digestion of a Martian computer. Chess is absurd. 

Taken too seriously, chess is narrow, soul-constricting and 
illusory. Within the confines of a board of sixty-four squares, 
reality is reduced to the abstract and artificial relationships that 
obtain among a few pieces of wood mystically endowed with 
arbitrary powers. These powers and relationships have no exist- 
ence or meaning apart from the mind of a chess-player, and only 
exist there when it is attending to them. "Chess" is a cream-puff 
kingdom ever on the verge of vanishing even when a-building in 
the minds of its makers, and when not thought of, it is nothing. 
To be caught in the shackles of nothingness is pathetic. 


Now my brother dead 

Daylight may wear my vengeance 

Contemplating life 


fejuJ Ah 

Thursday at Night 

Caught up in mandril wind 

Sockets of sight I envisioned at depth 

Till soon but one remained 

Manifest religion embroidering a 

Useless conception 

Paths of detection, suited in beige 

Diminishing reality. I beckon a phase 

Immune to these corridors I'll waver 


That compound kiss of darkness 

Heeding my direction till I am 

Once again caste 

Into oblivion 

Most unregretfully 


Nestled in the hollow of motherearth. . .her arms surround you 

and comfort you, 

You will subside all your pain and turmoiled soul 
along with all her dominions. She will love you 
to beyond your earthy thoughts. 

P. Bowles 



Noctuids are by far the largest family in the Lepidoptera Order 
of insects. The Lepidoptera Order consists of Butterfiles, Skippers 
and Moths. They are also the most destructive insects of the 
Kingdom. The adults vary greatly in size, shape and color, but it is 
not the adult of this family that poses the most threat. It is the 
larvae. The larva is the just-hatched, immature insect that 
specializes in feeding. These larvae, after several weeks of feeding, 
fall into a rest period called the Pupa stage in which their bodies 
undergo great changes, and the adult (moth) emerges. The larva 
and the adult are so different in appearance that one doesn't 
realize the moth was once a worm destroying cabbage or another 
valuable crop just a few months ago. The larvae are leaf feeders, 
stem, root or fruit borers. They are unadorned with horns or other 
conspicuous features. The adult functions chiefly for reproduc- 
tion, although a few pollinate flowers. 

Cutworms are evasive Noctuid larvae. They feed at night, 
cutting plants crosswise at the stems, then hide in soil during the 
day. In the home garden the cutworm can be physically controlled 
by putting a paper collar around each plant. Another destructive 
species is the corn earworm which feeds on corn tomatoes and 
cotton. One way of keeping these insects under control is a 
practice called "trap cropping". For example, plant a few rows of 
corn in with your cotton crop and since the earworm prefers the 
corn, it will leave the cotton. When the corn is infested with the 
earworm, burn it to destroy them. 

The cabbage looper feeds on basic vegetables such as cabbage, 
lettuce and green beans. It is easily identified by its looping or 
hunching motion of the body used for motivation. Pesticide 
recommendations for these worms vary greatly from state to state 
although Parathion, Sevin or Phosdrin are very commonly used 




And He owned the sky; castles with white marble floor. 
And He flew so high; kids would come to him for more 
'Cause He blew their minds; with ruptured raptured blues 
And He'd walk on by; to see if someone had brought the news 
And He slew their binds; broken past-part pages in the dust 
And He Knew their lies; cataclysmic mechanisms turned to rust. 

And He said: 

Break on through, come over here 
Lose your minds and lose your fears 

Jump on in, swim around 

Stay awhile, be a clown, be profound — 

He cried: 

Look at me! Sit down and listen 

All I can be is what's been missing 

Hold on tight, we're losing ground 

The Temple crumbles, The Priests have drowned 
And They owned the Sky; golden chariots by the score 
And They flew so high; kids would come to them for more 
And They blew their minds; with touch of atoms — springing spraying 
And They'd walk on by; and laugh at those of people praying 
And They slew their binds; cut the Umble, tied a knot 
And They knew their lies; these They raped and then forgot. 

And He Said: 

Break on through, pass over here 

Lose your minds and lose your fears 

Jump on in, swim around 

Stay awhile, be sure to look around 

He Cried: 

Look at me, with sparkle glisten 
Look at me, I can hear you listen 

Touch my hands and be forgiven 

All I can be is what's been missing 

Hold on tight, we're losing ground 


Howard Mark Mandel 




the ant i was about to smash 
at me looked and said 
save your hand stay thy lash 
for i'll soon be dead 

why shorten a life that's short enough 
at me looked and said 
you see we work ourselves to death 
feeding queens in bed 

my hand then quivered lowered itself 
at me looked and sighed 
off he scurried to his work 
until the time he died 


You had an excuse then. 
You "couldn't see straight. " 
Then the world became a wart 

on the tip of your nose 
Look at it you cross-eyed fool! 

Ray D. Blew 

/ left the world today 
And pondered a wooded dream 
Feeling a sun I'd never seen 
Flowers were winge'd 
Rigid stares from a llama 
Winding paths- 

I knelt among the wheat 
Numerous days 
I fondled the sky 
I tasted the loam 
While opening my eyes. 




Candle beckon unto thyself 
The lam'd heart of stranded soul 
That's fallen by the icy stream. 
Struggled o'er its cold stone walls 
The fugitive broke its crimson prisons 
And slashed away emotional chambers 
Tearing through the snowbrush. 

Now sought in nestling sloaf-cup slumber 

The scarlet rivers of warmth and comfort 

Once spoke of by the harbinger. 

For just o'er the clearing 

And in the nightwood 

He lies quivering like a frozen quail 

Bounded by the storm. 

May your guardian flame 

Guide him like a lodestar 

And eternal power of inspiration 

Open the wooded gates of deliverance 

And carry him home. 

Ray D. Blew 

I'm going to die. . . 

When lilies are glowing 
With exuberance up-turned 
faces toward the sun. 

I shall laugh among the 

Transcend the hollow 
flowing river. 

I shall stream peacefully 

flowing — floating, 
feeling all nature within 
throughout and without me. 

P. Bowles 

I move in thought. . . 

Of darkened shapes 
and wine-paled light. 
On moss-starred stones 
in slipping streams 
Through dust-filled rays 
of filtered beams 

I move in thought of you. 

Ana Simon 

■~ T> r-l 

•= § !2. s w ^ s 

Two pigeons resting peacefully atop 
a high building with the sky as their 
background and the clouds as their neighbors 

P. Bowles 



It was two in the afternoon, a cold day in March when I bopped 
across that field from the post office with an envelope I had 
already started making excuses for. I was done for the day and 
glad of it. I pulled off my shoes, took a running dive for the bed 
and threw the blankets up over my head. Mid-term grades I'd held 
in my hand containing an "F" in Organic, my second time around. 
What a drag, a "58", and I'd thought Dr. Erlenmeyer would have 
cut me a break. I then proceeded to obliterate myself from the 
picture, incorporating all conceivable exemptions from responsi- 
bility. It was easy. 

I must have spent the better part of an afternoon sulking about 
my hard luck and assuring myself it wasn't my fault I got that 
grade and that's what I'd tell my father in the morning. 

Friday morning rolled around like half a worldly revolution and 
I found myself packing my dirty socks, an envelope, and bagful of 
programmed exonerations I carried like the answer to the 
sixty-four dollar question. 

Tootie-toot! Terror-toot! I stashed the goods in the back and 
we were gone with the wind. With cruise control and couting at 80 
on the Pa. T. P., the parley begins. . . 


"Well, what?" 

"What hell, the grades." He didn't go for the verbal games. 

I was just about to spit the non-virtue when I stopped and took 
a good look at the man who'd asked me that same question six 
times in the past two years. He was a strong and tough-looking big 
man at forty-three and although I was an inch taller now, I still 
looked up to him. When he laughed his forehead wrinkled like an 
accordian and to shake his willing hand was like joyful reunion 
with a number seven sandpaper. He'd made well of his life, but oh 
there were times! There were times so bad I can still see Mom, 
numbering sheets of waxed paper so we wouldn't use them more 
than three times. He never said he got a bad break; his dreams had 
snowballed into genuine authenticism. A perennial winner — an 
achievement activationist. He'd conquered the mushroom and 
executed defeat as he culminated that one simple serenade-like 
septicemia that beckoned every man hum a tune in his own private 
manner. . .success. Most never found the words, the phrase, the 
tune, the melody. Nor had I. I had no excuses, gave none, and 
thought little more of it as we travelled on, quietly, slightly 
distracted by a faint euphoric toccata that kept me toe-tapping the 
floorboard all the way home. 

To share your sleep. . . 

To reach your dreams and draw you in — 

and out— and up— and far beyond. 
To reach your dreams and be a part 

and know and feel your spirit shapes, 

and darkest deeps, and wanderings. 
To be a dream and dream for you 

and drift and sleep in love. 
To play amid your crystal flashing silver space 
To spin and glide and keep the night 

and plunge on through. . . 
To share your morning. 

Ana Simon 

Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory; 
Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
Are heaped for the beloved's bed; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, 
Love itself shall slumber on. 

-Percy Bysshe Shelley 

American literature has lost one of its most prolific creators 
with the recent death of novelist Pearl Buck. Mrs. Buck was 
also a member of the Board of Trustees of Del-Val. She wrote 
many citations for honorary degrees presented here, and 
received a Dr. of Letters degree at the 1965 graduation where 
she was also the main speaker. 

Awarded both the Pulitzer Prize (1932) and the Nobel Prize 
for Literature (1938), she was elected to membership in the 
American Academy of Arts and Letters and the National 
Institute of Arts and Letters. 

Humanitarian in practice as well as thought, she founded 
Welcome House, a non-profit organization designed to facili- 
tate the care and adoption of American-born children of Asian 

Born in West Virginia in 1892, she grew up in China, 
acquiring an appreciation and respect for the Chinese people 
that was revealed in her many tales of Chinese culture and life. 

The Good Earth, published in 1931, gained its author 
international acclaim and a Pulitzer Prize. Made into a movie, 
the novel established Pearl Buck's reputation as a literary 

Creator of The Chinese Novel, My Several Worlds and The 
Promise, she also authored numerous children's books and 
contributed to various magazines, including Nation and the 
Saturday Review of Literature. 

"I remember when I was born. I do remember! 
"Through eternity I slept, 
"By its quiet waters swept, 
"In its silence safely kept. 

"All unknowing night or day, all unthinking there I lay, 
"Suddenly by life compelled, I was free no longer held, 
"Free to live or free to die, free to be that which am I. 
"I remember when I was born. I do remember. " 

Pearl S. Buck 

Pearl S. Buck, Trustee 
we will miss thee